


Meeting Station Management

by PickledDeath



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Gen, Station Management - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-10
Updated: 2013-09-10
Packaged: 2017-12-26 05:30:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/962161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PickledDeath/pseuds/PickledDeath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cecil applies for an internship at Night Vale Community Radio and is surprised to be offered a job as a radio host! But, there’s a catch.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meeting Station Management

**Author's Note:**

> I am told that this is no longer canon compliant, so. Yep.

Cecil Palmer was not fidgeting in the uncomfortable chair seated just outside the Human Resources office of Night Vale Community Radio. Cecil distinctly remembered (as distinctly as he could through the strange filmy dissonance that had been draped over his memories since traveling to Europe) reading an article that said the waiting room before an interview was its own trial. That many hiring offices would have the receptionist report on how much their prospective hires fidgeted, if they were obnoxious, loud, or had any otherwise undesirable characteristics. The receptionist sitting across from him had been staring at him unblinkingly with eyes the color of wet concrete since the moment he came in, so Cecil was sure she wouldn’t miss any fidgeting or nervous gesture he let slip.

 

Just as Cecil was telling himself not to shuffle the papers in his lap under her steely gaze the door beside him opened and a small man peeked out. He was only a little over four feet tall, slightly purple around the edges, with long hanging jowls and bags under his eyes. He looked as if he had been poured into a slightly soggy gray pinstripe wool suit. He turned to peer at Cecil with watery gray eyes distinctly reminiscent of the receptionist who still had not stopped boring holes into the side of Cecil’s head with her stare.

 

“Cecil Palmer?” the man asked without any expression. His voice sounded wet and snuffly, as if he was just recovering from a cold or chest infection.

 

Cecil hurriedly stood, straightened his back and offered the man his hand. “Yes, that’s me sir!” Cecil exclaimed, trying to pull back his enthusiasm and failing.

 

The man stared down at Cecil’s hand, then back up into his anxious face, then back down at his hand again. Slowly, he reached out and grasped Cecil’s hand in a handshake as if he was unsure if Cecil might use the arm to put him in a headlock. Cecil took note that the man’s skin felt damp and rubbery in his hand. When he tightened his hand around the other man’s his fingers gave way as if there were no bones beneath the skin to give them structure.

 

“Humanae Opus,” the man snuffled. “A pleasure to meet you, I’m sure,” he said in the same tone of voice that most people bemoaned a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of their shoe. “Please come in. Take a seat.”

 

Mister Opus walked backward all the way from the door to his small office until he was back behind his desk. Cecil followed behind him with hopeful eyes and took a seat in a chair identical to the one he had been sitting in outside. The office was about the size of a generously proportioned broom closet and had about the same level of finish. The floors were the same scuffed beige tile that was out in the hall. There was a beat up wooden baseboard that was painted a slightly lighter gray than the slate colored walls which had marks and dents scattered across them. On the walls were a few dusty frames with indecipherable certificates framed inside. They hung from wire on rusty nails that had left spidering cracks in the gray dry wall. The only part of the office that gave any distinction of position or respect was the frosted glass wall that sat squarely behind Mister Opus.

 

There was what looked like a sliding door set into the glass wall and dim light beyond. Silhouetted in that dim light were the strangest shapes Cecil had ever seen. There were all indefinite and wavering so he could never quite get a good idea what any of them were, but they certainly didn’t seem to be the shadows of men.

 

“You come very highly recommended, Mister Palmer,” Humanae Opus said.

 

Cecil shook himself from his contemplation of the shadows behind Mister Opus and smiled hesitantly. “I do?” he asked. “Er! I mean ...”

 

“No worries, Mister Palmer,” Mister Opus wheezed. “We have many contacts here in Night Vale and beyond and they’ve all spoken very highly of you. We hear you have a lot of potential.” Mister Opus trained his watery gray eyes on Cecil’s brightening expression and forgot to blink.

 

“Oh, that’s so very good to hear! If I knew who these contacts were I’d be very happy to thank them heartily!” Cecil said happily. “I just want you to know that even with these high recommendations from places unknown that I’d be very honored to intern here at the radio station.”

 

Mister Opus made a hiccuping wheezing sound that Cecil thought may be a laugh. “Mister Palmer. With these sort of recommendations it has been recommended to me that we forego interning all together and make you the host of your own show.”

 

Cecil’s eyebrows jumped toward his hairline and his mouth dropped open in a small ‘o’. “Mister Opus, that would be amazing! I would be so -!”

 

“But!” Humanae Opus said firmly, his voice suddenly deepening and filling the tiny office. “There is a small catch,” he said in a much quieter (but still very firm) voice. “If we’re to allow you to bypass the internship period, you’ll have to agree to let our station management test you to make sure you are worthy of such a position.”

 

Cecil sobered his expression and pulled his shoulders back. “Of course, I understand sir. I agree that it’s only right.”

 

Humanae Opus’ face pulled itself into a strange lopsided smile as he slowly pushed himself to his feet. Then, again without turning around, reached behind himself and slowly pulled the glass sliding door open. As he did so the shadows that had seemed to be crowding closer to the glass suddenly pulled themselves back together and gathered into one large being in the middle of the cavernous room beyond.

 

Cecil was rather sure that the room beyond the frosted glass door had no right being the size that it was. He was rather sure that the radio station only had three floors and that he was on the third. The building had been a plain sand colored box with no unusual corners or protrusions that he could see from the road. Yet, the room behind Mister Opus extended possibly fifty or sixty feet high and probably twice that width and length. The floors were still tiled, but now with a flecked black marble. The walls were also tall and dark. From somewhere above there must have been a skylight that shone down singularly on the unknowable horror that stood in the middle of the massive room.

 

With his knees trembling, Cecil slowly came to his feet and looked at the thing bringing itself to full height behind Mister Opus. It looked like it was both every creature Cecil had ever seen and none of them. There on the right Cecil saw the large wing of a crow. On the left was the snapping mouth of a huge black wolf. Somewhere in the middle was a beak almost like that of a squid and still more smaller circular mouths with multiple rows of sharp little teeth. The thing on a whole was black and constantly changing and writhing. One moment Cecil was sure it was standing on small delicate paws, the next the paws seemed more like talons, and after that long hooked legs like that of a mutated ant.

 

“Mister Palmer, this is our Station Management. Station Management, Cecil Palmer,” Humanae Opus said, bowing low and extending a hand to each party as he introduced them.

 

“Thank you, Mister Opus. That will be all,” a deep shattering voice said. Cecil felt something vile and tight crawl up his spine as the overwhelming thing in front of him spoke.

 

Then, with a strange undulation, Station Management yanked Humanae Opus backward by a thick fleshy cord attached to his lower middle back. Cecil swallowed heavily to see the human resource manager be pulled into and then slowly absorbed back into Station Management until just his wet fleshy face was left protruding between two inhuman mouths on what Cecil thought might be the thing’s stomach.

 

“Cecil Palmer,” Station Management said. The words sent a stab of pain like an ice pick through the left side of Cecil’s brain.

 

“Y-yes, sir or madam?” Cecil responded nervously, trying to find one aspect of Station Management to focus on but unable to find anything that wouldn’t melt back into the blackness or transform into something else before he could.

 

“We would like to make you the host of our nightly news segment. We have not had a host for that segment in many years, but you have great potential. However, to take on such an honor you must open your mind’s eye and see all,” Station Management solemnly intoned.

 

“To open the mind’s eye is a grueling process, but Station Management would do it for you if you allow them,” the face of Humanae Opus said from the middle and slightly to the right of Station Management’s girth. “Adherents to Taoism would meditate for years to learn how to open their Ajna Chakra and obtain full sight. Our path would be much more painful, but then you would be guaranteed the position as our Voice.”

 

Cecil hesitantly reached up and adjusted the knot of his tie. The left side of his brain ached and tumbled with fear. It was repulsed and terrified of the thing that called itself Station Management and wanted nothing more than to turn and run out of the radio station, down the street, into the sand wastes, and never look back. But, the right side of his brain rejoiced. From that side of himself he suddenly felt that he would never want anything more than he wanted to become the Station Management’s Voice. Despite the pain that the process promised, he wanted so very much for Station Management to perform whatever process it was to open his mind’s eye and give him full sight. He wanted it. More than how much he feared the pain. More than how much he wanted to live. More than how much he wanted to remain who he was.

 

With each foot fighting the other Cecil slowly stepped closer to Station Management until he had to arch his neck to see the very top of it.

 

“Cecil Palmer, do you consent to becoming the Voice of Night Vale?” Station Management said, it’s voice coming from all around and inside of Cecil.

 

Cecil felt a shiver travel through his whole body, but otherwise he remained still.

 

“I do,” he croaked.

 

“Very well,” Station Management replied.

 

From the very top of Station Management two large black wings unfolded and pointed straight up toward the bright light above them. Cecil saw two long pointed appendages uncurl from each other to rise up between the wings before angling down toward Cecil’s upturned face. The tips of the black appendages dripped a dark purple ichor and Cecil couldn’t turn his face away from it.

 

In his peripheral vision Cecil perceived many different kinds of appendages (clawed hands, shaggy paws, taloned feet, and even possibly a tentacle covered in suckers) arrange themselves around him. The two sharp appendages above him kept reaching down toward him twirling around each other like the snakes on a caduceus. Just as they began to drip their purple ichor on his forehead, Cecil heard Humanae Opus speak again from somewhere near his right knee.

 

“Now, try to hold very still,” he snuffled. “This will hurt quite a lot, but we’re confident that you’ll survive.”

 

Humanae Opus barely finished what he was saying before one of the appendages stabbed squarely in the middle of his forehead. The pain was immediate and intense. If Cecil had to compare it to something, he supposed it was like getting a tapered ice pick slathered in chili powder, salt, and the neurotoxins of a jellyfish’s stinger stabbed through his skull. Cecil opened his mouth to scream only to have his breath stolen from him as he felt the second appendage stab into the back of his head beneath his occipital bone.

 

Tears filled Cecil’s eyes as the pain crested and his knees gave out from under him. The myriad of mismatching appendages arranged around him jumped forward to grasp and prop him up so that the things burrowing into either side of his brain were not disturbed. Cecil could feel the two sharp pointed things reaching, twisting, writhing toward each other. When they met in some deep point of his brain at the top of his cerebellum, Cecil saw an amazing flash of light explode behind his eyes.

 

All at once Cecil saw everything.

 

Just as quickly, Cecil saw nothing.

 

* * *

 

When Cecil came too he found himself seated behind a desk with a soft light shining from behind him. His head ached harder than he could ever remember and moving his hands and arms took a surreal effort.

 

Slowly, Cecil reached his hand up and touched his forehead where the pain felt the most dazzling. There he felt a delicate vertical seam in his flesh. Behind that flesh he no longer felt the bone of his forehead, but something soft and yielding like an eyeball.

 

Cecil resisted the urge to vomit as he realized this was his third eye, drilled into his brain by Station Management. He hadn’t thought that it would be a literal eye.

 

“Cecil Palmer,” the earth shattering voice of Station Management spoke behind him and Cecil froze, a wave of fear washing over him. “Nobody who has seen me has ever lived. This is fact. Therefore, you have never seen me. Is this not also fact?” they asked.

 

“Yes, this is fact,” Cecil said hoarsely. He became aware that his throat felt raw as if he had just spent hours screaming.

 

“Good,” Station Management replied. “Please leave our office and never return. You will be due at work at 3 pm tomorrow and your show will air at 10 pm. Be prompt.”

 

Cecil heard the door behind him slide shut. Cecil’s chest heaved and his stomach rolled. He felt sure that the stink of fear and pain were radiating off of him in waves. With as much dignity as he could he muster Cecil stood and walked around the the desk in front of him and opened the door to exit the office.

 

The receptionist was no longer behind her desk. In fact, there was no longer a receptionist’s desk at all. Instead there was a large vending machine with Grape Soda spelled out in stylized purple letters. The hall was deserted. The overhead lights made a buzzing noise above Cecil’s head.

 

Cecil pushed himself away from the door which had previously read ‘Human Resources’, but now read ‘Station Management’. He started walking. He walked out of the Night Vale Community Radio Station, down the main street, down a not very main street, up the stairs to his apartment, through his front door, down the hall, into his bathroom, then promptly threw up the Subway sandwich he had eaten for lunch (he would find out later roughly three days ago), and passed out on his bathroom floor.

 


End file.
